


Waiting for the Downpour

by Skalidra



Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [3]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, It's Marco's fault, M/M, No Sex, Omega Marco, Ownership, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: On the eve of battle, camped and waiting for the dawn, Marco finds himself alone. Surrounded by an army, soldiers and servants and everything else, and still, alone. At least until the Khan comes for him, requesting that Marco accompany him to his ger to provide company for the night. Whether he wishes to or not doesn't matter; he is the possession of the Khan, and refusal is not within his rights.
Relationships: Kublai Khan/Marco Polo
Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/583663
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Waiting for the Downpour

**Author's Note:**

> Look... you're just never going to stop me writing these, alright? Just, every once in a while I'm going to stick my nose back into those fandom and write something random for this series, and then go on with my life. (We'll get to season 2 at some point, too.)
> 
> This one is my first one writing Marco's PoV, and _oh my god_. I kept thinking I was writing too flowery and too introspective and then I would have the show on in the background and be reminded that NOPE. Marco's just LIKE THAT. This boy I swear to god. Anyway, this takes place in episode 2; some of the initial dialogue is pulled straight from the show, before I yank the scene off in my own direction. Have fun, guys.

It's odd, the way some things are as similar as they are different. Marco recalls that he had always wanted to see the world, to experience half the things those around him spoke of, from distant lands, to distant peoples, to language and art. He sat by the fireplace more times than he can recall, listening to his mother read from his father's notes and journals, and then reading them himself when he was older, learning the pieces she kept to herself.

The warmth on his skin, the smell of the smoke and the wood… These were things he thought he knew.

Gathering around the fire with his father's men was a different experience. The warmth paired with the cold chill of the open night sky at his back, and the smoke left to rise in cryptic patterns towards the stars instead of bending to the force of man's will, to be contained in the stone of a fireplace. There was a sense in the wilds of it being the only defense against the unknown danger of the darkness. As if there were tricksters and demons in the dark, waiting to steal any soul that ventured past where the light cast.

Three years on the road… He thought he'd come to understand that, too. The variances in weather, the way different woods burned, the oddities that could be added to the flame to cause change in color, or create sparks. It all made sense to him.

And yet, here he is beside a fire, and it feels nothing alike. The construction is the same as anything his father or uncle might have built, simple stone arranged to contain the wood within, fire as bright and just as warm as any he's been near. There is nothing different about the fire, except simply that his senses tell him it is unfamiliar, and that unfamiliarity makes him tense, without cause or even true understanding.

Perhaps it is that he is alone. He cannot recall a time on the Silk Road that he was left by himself at a fire, but here, even with the gers crowded close and the murmur of conversation all around him, he sits alone. No one dares (or perhaps wishes?) to join him, and Marco cannot honestly claim to be surprised by that.

He may be accepted — welcomed, sought after, _pursued_ — by those of the Khan's court, but here among the common soldiers, he is first and foremost a possession of the Khan. It's become clear to him that no loyal soldier would dare to hint interest in him without permission. There are some privileges to his position after all.

Or perhaps, it is the sword in his lap, ringing softly with every scrape of stone across it as he sharpens it. His father would never have _dreamed_ of furnishing him with such a weapon, let alone taught him how to use it. He certainly never would have expected Marco to actually _do_ anything with a blade. Not like his new Khan master does. Everything Marco was taught has told him that it isn't the place of his gender to fight, and yet here he is, a sword in hand and armor waiting in his tent for him to don it, come the morning.

The murmur of the soldiers, the clank and scrape of weaponry and armor, the dotted landscape of fire and tents... He has felt what his father called 'the calm before the storm,' but this feels apart from that, too. There is a... tension. Like the rising thickness in the air before the clouds above break. Past the point of calm, and onto waiting for the downpour.

This is war, he thinks. The grim calmness of men that may meet their end before the sun ever rises to its highest point again. And somehow, he is one of them.

"Where do you think the Venetian merchant is this evening?" a voice says behind him, startling him from his idle movement.

It takes him only a moment, and a breath, to recognize the Khan. He stands, setting aside the sword and holding hand to stomach to bow, shallow but expected. Only once his body has finished with the motions does the question even register.

His father.

He wishes, so dearly, that he could speak of his father without the tang of bitterness slicing over both his tongue and his heart.

"India? Tabriz?" he offers, attempting — and failing, he has no doubt — to sound as though it's careless speculation, and not the desperate guesses of hours spent considering trade routes and travel times, and trying to track down every scrap of gossip that might hint where his father has gone.

The Khan nods, and Marco truly isn't certain what it is he's agreeing with until he holds his hands out to the fire to warm them, and says, "On my Silk Road, chasing riches."

Where he could have been. Where he _should_ be, had his father not—

Marco swallows the thought away before it can tinge his scent, though he knows it's likely far too late. (It is _not his fault_ , a frustrated, raging thing inside of him proclaims. The Khan isn't ignorant of the words he chooses, and he has seen enough times how Marco cannot help but react to mention of his abandonment. If his scent becomes less palatable, the Khan himself is to blame, not him.)

"I was just about your age when I knew."

Marco finds his gaze has drifted back to the fire, but the words draw him back quick enough. "Knew what, Sire?"

"That I had to become the man I wished my father was." The Khan glances over then, with a faint twist of lips that could as easily be laughing at him as be a show of sympathy. "It is difficult, no? To think so highly of a man for so many years, only to have them fall short of those expectations."

After a beat of silence, it becomes clear the Khan waits for an answer.

"Yes, Sire," is all that comes to his tongue, for it is all that is true.

Perhaps it is not wholly about him, however, for the Khan's face turns back to the fire as he grunts agreement. Marco has seen the Khan in a fair amount of moods, but this pensive quiet is new to him. Perhaps any man would act as such, were he to fight the armies of his own brother at first light. Marco cannot imagine what it must feel like, to know your only path forward is to kill one of those you love. A brother. Family.

On second thought, no. He doesn't think the Khan's question has much to do with his father at all. Why would the Khan care for his petty bitterness when he has such other matters to dwell on?

What does the harsh reality of the worth of Marco's life matter, set against a war and the fate of a kingdom?

The Khan shakes his head, and steps back from the fire. "My thoughts are far too heavy for the hour. Accompany me to my ger, Latin; I would have your company this night."

Warmth and chill take him at the same time, as though the fire and the night fight for control of his skin. He wants to flee, as much as to accept, but perhaps it's best the choice is not truly his at all. Refusing is not a right he has when it comes to the desires of his master; he didn't need the Empress to teach him that, though she did anyway. What the Khan wishes, the Khan receives. He is no exception. To deny that would be to willingly shed what little protection he has, and he… He does not think he will survive, stripped of that.

"As you wish, my Khan." He hopes his voice doesn't tremble. He's sure it does.

He's sure, as well, that the Khan notices, but it isn't commented upon. He turns away, and Marco has no choice but to follow. One of the warriors behind them collects the sword and bundle of armor Marco left beside the fire, just before it occurs to him that it may be required of him.

Armor, a blade… It all yet feels unnatural to him.

They pass through the camp, Marco following as he has been bid, and finding everything still that disconcerting mix of strange and yet familiar. All around them are men and women prepared to fight and kill, or die themselves, if their fates and gods decree it to be their time. They offer respectful acknowledgement of their Khan's passing — a bowed head here, a hand pressed to a heart there — but there is none of the fanfare and showmanship of the court; no groveling bows or ceremonial ritual. It's unlike what he's become used to. And yet, there is a familiarity to the respect given; one that reminds him oddly of how his father's men behaved, on their trip. Always marking where his father moved, stepping out of the way or dipping their heads as he passed.

It is — if he had to put it to words — acknowledgment of a leader, as opposed to submission to a ruler. His father's men, and these soldiers, offer the respect due their commander, but forgo for now the praise they would offer a king. Here, it seems the Khan is simply a soldier amidst the rest. He cannot claim to understand why, yet it seems clear enough to his eyes.

Perhaps Sifu will be able to explain it. If his temperamental teacher is in a good mood when this is done.

If they are not all dead by the time he has a chance to ask.

The Khan's guards hold the flap of the ger open. They have to duck to enter, but not as far as Marco has become used to, in his own sleeping arrangements. The ger has easily twice the space of the one he's shared with Sifu, the area draped with mats, a collection of pelts across the room an easily defined place of rest. There's a low table as well, with a small spread of various food. Nuts, fruits, a pitcher and a small cluster of cups, around it.

The cloth falls shut behind them. Marco keeps his eyes from the pile of pelts and cushions, and all that it implies. He will give what the Khan demands, but if he must, he would not draw attention to it any sooner than necessary.

"Come," the Khan says, as he crosses to the table, and takes a seat beside it. "Sit beside me, Latin. Share with me."

He obeys. Follows the same steps, and sits where the Khan's hand pats, just beside him. Close enough that he feels the heat of the Khan even through the thick fabric of his clothing, and not even a hands-breadth of space separates them. Close enough that he can nearly taste, when he breathes in, the rich, thick metal-and-spice of the Khan's scent. Even thicker when an arm settles around his shoulders, pulling him close with an easy tug.

Here, he feels… small. The Khan has always dwarfed him, large in every way, and with the deep solidity of muscle behind his girth. It is not the wiry, lean, corded strength he was already familiar with, but the Mongols have a denser, heavier strength to them that seems more than equal.

(There is a part of him — a part he has always tried to ignore, in the years he has followed those rules taught to him — that notices that strength. Notices it, and quails in a manner he is not familiar with. Trickling warmth down the length of his spine, and a tremble to his breath.)

Surely, the Khan can feel the tension in his frame, pressed together as they are, but he makes no comment on it. He only grunts, low and satisfied, and reaches for the pitcher. It's Airag, he sees as it pours. Thick and white; he's seen it poured often enough in the circles of the Khan's court, though he hasn't tried it himself.

It becomes clear enough as the Khan pours a second cup that he will be trying it now. Well, perhaps… Perhaps it will be easier, with that. Intoxicants are supposed to loosen the mind, aren't they? His father never allowed him to have more than a sip of what their companions were drinking, but he saw the effect it had on them. He heard of the evils of it, being raised in Venice.

"Have you tried Airag yet, Latin?"

He takes the cup pressed into his hands, looks down into it. "No, Sire."

The Khan grunts, amused, this time. "Start slow, then. Be a shame to waste good Airag."

It is… different than he expects. It's lighter and thinner, actually, than any milk he's previously tried. There's a sour edge that blends with a bite of harsh flavor, and yet it… plays over his tongue, as if leaping to attempt to escape his mouth as it flows across. Smoother past the first sourness, as his senses grow accustomed… Leaves an aftertaste he finds oddly similar to almonds, though as far as he's aware Airag does not use any form of nut in its making.

Odd.

"So?"

Marco looks up, finding the Khan a mere breath away and watching him, a brow raised just enough to demand an answer. The closeness, more than anything, stills his tongue a moment.

Then he finds it, once again. "It is… not what I expected. I find it is not immediately to my taste, but I see how one could grow to enjoy it, with time. It is not unpleasant."

For whatever reason, that seems to amuse the Khan. He laughs, not unkindly but certainly teasing. "Not so unlike your time here, eh?"

The words catch him in the gut the same way one of Sifu's heels might, stealing his breath and any idea of words off his tongue. He swallows, tries to take a breath deep enough to speak and fails. It takes a couple tries, and he stares into the cup until he can get past the twist of his stomach.

"That is not how I would describe it, Sire."

Perhaps that was not the best choice of words.

He dreads, for a few moments, the thought of being told to describe it in the words that he would pick. It would be far less than flattering, and he fears the reaction that might come if he lies. Or if he doesn't.

Would it be worse to be unflattering, or to be caught lying to his new master? Surely the Khan must know that he— That it was not easy. 'Not to his taste' does not begin to cover the experience of his first months here. He doesn't even know what he could say, to try and describe it. Being abandoned. Owned. _Used_.

The arm around his shoulders tightens for a brief moment, squeezing him in against the Khan's side before easing. No demand comes, only a low rumble of a hum with no recognizable note of intention in it.

Slowly, through several more sips of his drink, his expectation fades. Surely if the Khan was going to ask, he already would have. He doesn't know whether the Khan doesn't care, or has decided to show mercy, but he can choose not to question that. Better that he doesn't have to explain what he meant. It's become clear enough that his words may have saved him, but they could doom him just as easily, and it's not always obvious which side of the line they may fall on.

"Have you eaten this night, Latin?" The Khan asks, after a minute more. There seems to be nothing but idleness in the question; there's no hidden meaning nor trap in the words that Marco can see.

"I have, Sire. Some."

Kublai snorts softly. "Difficult to eat before a battle, isn't it? Tension makes the stomach shrink; even the most delicious of meals can be unpalatable."

It's true enough. He did eat most of the bowl that was handed to him by Sifu, before his teacher vanished amidst the army, but he couldn't finish it. His stomach was — still is — twisting and tight, rejecting the idea of eating all that much more, though he knows logically he hasn't eaten enough to be filling. Were he still in Cambulac, he knows he could easily have finished that much. More, in fact.

The Khan reaches forward, picking up a piece of some sliced fruit and lifting it from the plate. "Best to eat anyways. The night before should be hearty, and the morning light, to strengthen without weighing a warrior down." The fruit is offered to him, raised far enough towards his lips it's clear he's meant to take it straight from the Khan's fingers. "Eat. You may not be on the front lines, Latin, but you will still need the stamina to endure the day."

It doesn't seem appealing, but there is no denying his master. Marco takes the piece of fruit, avoiding the Khan's fingers as he does. The sweetness spreads over his tongue; he will admit that it goes down his throat much easier than the thicker stew he was given before, the lighter texture making it easier to ignore how unsure his body is of eating any more. He lets the flavor stay in his mouth for a few seconds, as the Khan takes a small handful of nuts for himself, before he takes another sip of the Airag.

He reaches for another piece of fruit on his own, before the Khan can choose one to feed him. It isn't the first time he's had an alpha feed him (he vaguely recalls his heat in the desert, delirious with only his father to care for him, wet rags and the touch of fingers at his lips), but it feels far different to have the Khan do it, knowing exactly what the alpha wants from him. It's... uncomfortable, though Marco isn't even sure that's the word that best describes it. (Intimate, maybe. In a way that he isn't sure he welcomes, and yet cannot refuse.)

The Khan rumbles approval. He feels it vibrate into him through the press of their sides, and swallows rather more thickly than the fruit merits.

He avoids most of the other food on the table, though the Khan takes a sampling of everything, some of it being fed to him as well. Nothing that turns his stomach overmuch, though, which he's thankful for. His cup is refilled twice. It isn't until the Khan chuckles, startling him to awareness, that Marco realizes he's leaning heavily into his Khan's side. His blinks feel slow, his limbs warm and languid as he shifts, and then immediately finds himself missing the warmth and solidity.

He sighs, easing back into it. The scent in his nose is powerful and comforting, and he simply… doesn't feel like moving. This is comfortable.

"I'll make sure to have you escorted if you ever join a feast," the Khan says, from somewhere above him. He sounds amused. That's good, right? "Come, Latin. Time to rest."

The body he's leaning into moves, and he makes a soft, complaining sound. It doesn't stop powerful arms from pulling him into them, hefting him upwards and the movement is just slightly sickening. Marco closes his eyes, turns his head into the chest it's ended up against and breathes deep.

He fades for a moment, and then finds himself laid on fur and fabric, the light against his eyelids quickly fading. He opens his eyes to see the Khan extinguish the last of the candles, leaving only the shadow of him there, nearly invisible in the blackness if not for his movement, fabric rustling as he approaches. When hands touch him, fingers combing through his hair, cupping the side of his head, he closes his eyes again.

The tug at his clothing brings a faint thread of alarm, but it's so muted so he doesn't do more than make a soft sound of protest, shifting away from the touch.

"You'll need to learn to drink, little Latin," the Khan says to him, but the hands stay, pushing the cloth away to bare his chest. "If I wished to have you, I would have you present. Rest; you will not be touched."

Oh. Alright.

It is more comfortable, being bare beneath the fur that the Khan drags over him. Better yet, when his head is pulled to a chest, an arm wrapped heavy and warm around his back.

"Sleep, Latin," the Khan murmurs. "Tomorrow, we will all meet our fates."

* * *

_"Watch and remember what you see,"_ the Khan had said to him during the first rays of morning, donning his armor. _"Faithfully."_

Marco swallows and watches the Khan step back from the corpse of his brother, blood streaking the gold of his armor, sword still dripping it. His words still ring across the Steppe, the army across cowed by them, surrendering without a fight to the more powerful ruler. Their Khan. Khan of them all.

He looks up to them, and it can't possibly be but Marco feels like the gaze is meant specifically for him. His heart still pounds in his chest, his throat tight with the suspense and the nerves. His hands move without thought or consent, lifting to pull the helmet from his head and bare himself to that searching gaze. It surely can't be for him, but still he… he must.

The Khan goes to his horse, mounts and rides it back up the hill. To him.

Others must move out of the way, but Marco doesn't register it. He only registers the Khan's horse coming to a stop besides his, and the hand that lifts, cupping the side of his face.

"You will come to my ger," his Khan commands, the only sound in the entirety of the battlefield. The hand is warm and wet against his face.

"Yes, Sire," is the only answer he can give. The only answer he can imagine giving.

The Khan's hand releases him. Goes back to the reins of his horse. "Good."

When he rides away, Marco turns the pony and follows him without thought.

The Khan. _His_ Khan.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
